


Find A Love Up On A Higher Level

by LadyShadowphyre



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol, Alcohol Induced Amnesia, Alternate Universe - Human, Amputee Castiel, But Not About Sam And Dean, Castiel Has PTSD (Supernatural), Chuck Shurley Wrote Supernatural, Chuck Shurley is Castiel's Parent, Copious amounts of alcohol - Freeform, Dean Winchester is Sir Not Appearing In This Fic, Discussion of PTSD, Divorcee Castiel, Las Vegas Wedding, Law School Graduate Sam Winchester, M/M, Michael Is Castiel's Older Brother (Supernatural), Morning After, Non-Explicit Nudity, Non-explicit references to sex, Protective Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester Needed Therapy, Woke Up Married To A Stranger, Zachariah is a dick, drunk married in vegas, hangovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-09
Updated: 2019-12-09
Packaged: 2021-02-18 16:30:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21730465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyShadowphyre/pseuds/LadyShadowphyre
Summary: Sam Winchester's life is on the upward track, a recent graduate from Stanford Law and spending the weekend in Vegas with his three best friends and fellow graduates, and his big brother Dean. Castiel Allen's life is crashing down around his ears, and the last thing he wants to do on top of everything is spend his first weekend after the finalization of his divorce stuck on a company retreat with coworkers he barely tolerates. When the two of them wake up Saturday morning, hungover and wearing matching rings with no memory of how they got there, Sam only hopes he can lift Castiel back up and give him a better reason to keep flying.
Relationships: Castiel/Sam Winchester
Comments: 19
Kudos: 56





	Find A Love Up On A Higher Level

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Loufok](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loufok/gifts).



> Written for the SPN Fluff Bingo Square: Lawyer AU  
> Written for the Sam Winchester Bingo Square: Amnesia  
> Written for the Bad Things Happen Bingo Square: Memory Loss  
> Written for the Good Things Happen Bingo Square: Sleepy Confession  
> Written for the Heaven & Hell Bingo Square: Zachariah (Apocalypse World)  
> Written for the SPN Song Challenge Bingo Square: "Last Resort" by Papa Roach

**H** IS HEAD WAS pounding. His mouth was dry. He was naked, and his muscles had the pleasant burn he had come to associate with energetic sex. He was lying on a bed that was ridiculously comfortable, way more so than any bed he'd ever had growing up or in college. He was lying next to another person who was warm and solid and fit nicely against him, one arm wrapped around their waist as if his sleeping self had wanted to keep them close during the night; an unapologetic cuddler, as his brother had accused him of being more times than he cared to count.

Sam Winchester could not remember anything past the third bar he and his friends had found.

It was supposed to be a graduation party trip. He and three other recent graduates from Stanford Law had pooled their resources (in this case, Sam's contribution had been his brother's 1967 Chevy Impala with the bonus of his brother driving them) and they had road-tripped it over to Las Vegas for what Kate had jokingly called a much less formal bar exam. Sam, being the recipient of a fake ID the moment he was even close to capable of passing for a baby-faced twenty-one, was an experienced drinker and had planned to stick to beer so as to have at least one of them available to be the voice of reason in the City of Sin, but Dean had caught on and made him switch to the hard stuff. Even so, he and Dean were still the most sober of the group by the time they hit the third bar on their list of five, but his memories blurred out around the time Luis had suggested tequila shots.

Sam cracked an eye open to peer through the thankfully dim lights in the room to the other body and ran a slightly hungover facial recognition check. Not Dean, thank God; he and his brother were close enough to share a bed if they had to, but definitely not close enough to have sex with each other, regardless of whatever jokes had been flung at them over the years. Not Luis, either, however, and since he appeared to be lying tangled up with a guy if the dark line of stubble on the visible jawline was any indication, that also ruled out Kate and Cecily. The list of people he had been on the trip with exhausted, he cautiously opened his eyes the rest of the way in order to study the face that was smooshed into the pillow beside him.

It was an attractive face, certainly, what little he could see of it with the pillow blocking two-thirds of it. Short hair that could have been black or just very dark brown matched the long fan of eyelashes and the stubble along the angular jaw that was relaxed in sleep. The skin beneath the stubble was a few shades darker than Sam's California tan and pinkened lips that were a little more full than his own. Sam let his eyes trail down from the face along the neck and upraised shoulder, and felt his cheeks heat at the collection of nail and bite marks of varying lengths and sizes and deepened redness. Had he been trying to draw blood like some clumsy or demented vampire, or just leave his mark like staking a claim? Who was this man? When had he met Sam and clicked enough that Sam had gone with him to this hotel room that - a cautious visual sweep to confirm - definitely wasn't the room he was sharing with Dean and Luis? Why had Dean even allowed him to--

Sam stopped that thought with a huff and a shake of his head. He knew damn well why Dean would support or even enable Sam having a drunken hook-up with a stranger in a bar. Dean tried, he did, but he was still completely baffled by Sam's insistence that, while sex was nice enough if he felt a strong enough bond with the other person, he just didn't _want_ it or _crave_ it like Dean did. To Dean, who had internalized the permanent impermanence of home as a place much more than Sam had growing up, sex was _important_ , a need like food or water or shelter, and one night stands were the closest thing a self-professed restless spirit like Dean thought he could get to an intimate personal connection with another person who wasn't his little brother. Not that he would ever say that or even admit it to himself, never mind to Sam, but the psychology course Sam had taken as part of his undergrad studies had been helpful for more than just shining a glaring spotlight on Sam's own need for regular therapy to truly deal with the scars and festering wounds left on his mind and soul by John Winchester and the demons the man had regularly tried to drown in alcohol when he couldn't outrun them driving all around the country and dragging Dean and Sam along for the ride, never staying in one place long enough to build real connections and relationships with people or peers.

So, yeah, Dean would have been perfectly on board with Sam getting laid. He also would have made sure he knew where to find Sam later and that Sam had his phone so he could call when it was safe to do so-- safe, by Dean's standards, meaning when Sam had finished the actual getting laid part and was cleaned up and dressed and ready to go. Sam's phone, therefore, was probably nearby, either on one of the horizontal surfaces in the room or still shoved into his inside jacket pocket and lying wherever his jacket was. Sam gave the idea of getting up to find it some consideration, but his head was pounding and his bedmate was warm and comfortable and Sam found himself really not minding the idea of just staying right where he was until his mystery man of the night woke up and Sam had to face the awkward "sorry I don't remember you or last night" thing. His head wasn't nearly as drum-pounding as the memory loss would suggest, so he had at least remembered the water trick and had hopefully gotten his mystery man to join him so he would hopefully not have too much of a splitting headache when he inevitably woke up.

Almost as if he was somehow aware of the direction Sam's thoughts had turned, the mystery man gave a snuffled, stuttered sigh and edged closer into Sam's chest like he was seeking more of the same warmth that Sam himself was enjoying. It was kind of adorable, and Sam spared a moment to wonder if the man was the type who would get offended by that thought or might blush instead. The soft little hums that almost sounded like purring were even more adorable, and Sam wondered what the man was dreaming of. He shifted the arm draped over the man's waist to a more comfortable angle that pulled him closer and got a longer hum that was almost a moan of pleasure. It quickly turned into a whimper of pain, and Sam winced in sympathy. His bedmate _was_ apparently also pretty hungover and was now waking up enough to register it.

The whimper tugged at Sam's heart, though, and he carefully shifted his hold on his bedmate in order to free one hand, using the tips of his first two fingers to stroke feather-light across the man's forehead and temple, brushing aside strands of dark hair. The low moan he got for his efforts was practically a sigh and the other man inched closer, burrowing into Sam's chest like he might very well try to settle in and stay there.

It only lasted a moment. Sam saw exactly when it registered with the other man that he was not alone, felt the tension flood into the slightly smaller body. The sweep of dark lashes flew up, revealing the most amazing pair of blue eyes Sam had ever seen, wide and startled, before they flinched closed again from the dim light in the room. Sam's lips twitched upwards, sympathetic to the way light was just not a friend first thing the morning after when the hangover was still pounding. As such, he took care to pitch his voice in as soft a murmur as he could manage without whispering. A whisper, he knew from experience, would only end up sounding louder from the force of air behind it.

"Good morning," he said, giving himself a mental pat on the back when his voice didn't cause another flinch in his companion nor a spike in his own headache. "At least, I'm pretty sure it's still morning. I can't see a clock from here."

"Sam?" the man mumbled, wincing a little at the volume of his own voice, or possibly from the roughened, almost gravel-like rasp to the deep tenor tones. The little frisson of pleasure Sam felt at the sound of that voice was drowned out by the wave of relief he felt at his companion correctly identifying him. "What... where are we? What happened?"

"Good question," Sam admitted, taking a chance and resuming his stroking of the man's hairline, smiling when the other relaxed into it. "Nothing too bad, I don't think, but then I'm pretty sure you remember more of last night than I do right now."

"What do you mean?" the man was squinting up at Sam now, somewhere between sleepy and suspicious, like Sam was a puzzle he couldn't quite remember starting but felt the need to finish, and that was a very bizarre metaphor for... whatever hour of the morning it was. Sam was interested to note that what little he could see of the other man's eyes really did look blue even in the dim light.

"I'm sorry to say I don't... remember your name. Or meeting you," Sam admitted, reluctantly drawing his hand back from the man's hair. A strange glint of something metallic on his hand made him pause, staring at the space on his ring finger that used to be empty and was now occupied by a plain metal band that looked grey in the dim light of the room. A little absently, he added, "Though depending on how the paperwork got filled out, either I know your last name or I don't know mine."

"Paperwork...?" the man opened his eyes again to look up at Sam in bleary dismay. Sam moved his hand around to show his bedmate the ring on his finger, and then had the pleasure of seeing much more of those bright blue eyes as they went very wide. They clenched shut almost immediately in a wince, and then the man was shifting around until he could free his own left arm and get a look at his hand. As Sam had halfway suspected, there was a matching ring on the second to last finger. "...Well, damn. I hope this happened before we split up for the night, or your brother is going to kill me."

"So you know Dean," Sam prompted, causing the man to wince again.

"Right, you said you don't..." he trailed off and shook his head. "Sorry. I'm Castiel Allen, or at least I was yesterday. I'm in town for a work retreat, and I met you and your brother last night when I escaped from the tedium of my coworkers' attempts to drink away their own job dissatisfaction."

"Any idea how and why we might have ended up Misters Winchester-Allen, or whatever we decided on last night?" Sam asked, sighing when Castiel shook his head. "Long shot, but I had to ask. Though if Dean was still with me when we met, maybe he'll know the why. The how, well... it's not like there's a shortage of wedding chapels in Vegas, and I've been told I'm pretty coordinated while drunk."

"I've never had occasion to truly test my tolerance," Castiel admitted. "At least until last night. I seem to have managed a spectacular hangover, in any case." He was nuzzling into Sam's chest and side, a fact that only came to Sam's immediate attention when he suddenly pulled away. "Sorry! I'm sorry, I didn't... shouldn't..."

"Whoa, easy, Castiel, it's okay!" Sam tightened his arm reflexively around the retreating body, relaxing his grip when Castiel stopped trying to move. "It's okay. Whatever my reasoning was last night, I must have decided I liked you enough to marry you as well as whatever else we got up to last night. Cuddling is completely okay with me so long as you're comfortable."

"If you're sure," Castiel mumbled, a bit doubtfully, but at least he stopped trying to hold himself so rigidly still and relaxed back into Sam's side. "You're warm...."

"I tend to run kinda hot, yeah," Sam hummed. "I guess my next question is, is there anyone who's going to be looking for you today if or when you don't show up at an appointed time or place?"

"There was supposed to be a trust-building exercise scheduled for this morning at nine," Castiel answered after a moment of thought. "Given how heavily my coworkers were drinking even before I made my escape, I can't imagine very many of them showed up for it."

"So, that's a solid maybe," Sam guessed, smiling a little when Castiel huffed a small laugh. "On the assumption that Dean was with us and so knows what happened and where we are, he's also not likely to come looking for us before noon, and even then he'll probably call first." He frowned up at the ceiling. "Although if he tries calling me and I don't answer, he'd probably show up in person anyway."

"Why wouldn't you answer?" Castiel asked. "I mean, I know why I wouldn't answer my phone since I turned it off when I decided to leave with you so no one could call me back in."

"My phone has a crap battery," Sam admitted. "As drunk as I had to have been, I probably didn't think about putting it on a charging cable, and I don't think this is my hotel room."

"Oh," Castiel sighed and then pushed himself away from Sam again. This time, Sam let him go, and Castiel didn't go very far, just raised himself up enough to look around the dim room. "Okay, we're in my room... and that looks like my clothes folded on the chair, which means yours are the ones on the floor near the bathroom."

"Can you see the clock from here?" Sam asked.

"Ten forty-seven," Castiel reported, and then lay back down, hesitantly wrapping one arm over Sam's chest and relaxing when Sam made no protest. "The trust building exercise would have been over at ten, and the next scheduled event isn't until eleven. Networking luncheon," he added with a snort. "As if we don't all work for the same company anyway."

"What company is that, if you don't mind my asking?" Sam asked.

"You married me, you might as well know what your husband does for a living," Castiel said drolly. Sam tried to ignore the little flip in his chest at the words "your husband". "I'm an accountant for Sandover Bridge & Iron, Incorporated. Not something I ever saw myself doing when I was younger, or even with my background, but it's work."

"I can sympathize," Sam murmured, reaching up to resume stroking his fingers through the thick dark hair. "Do you remember if I told you why Dean and I are here?"

"Celebrating your graduation from Stanford Law, wasn't it?" Castiel asked, tilting his head up to look at Sam and lowering it back to Sam's chest when he nodded. "An impressive accomplishment."

"Also not one I would have seen myself doing when I was younger," Sam admitted. "But here I am, and so are Luis, Kate, and Cecily, and with any luck we won't venture out into the real world and find our prospects aren't nearly so good as we were led to believe by our professors."

"The world will always need lawyers so long as there are enough people alive to have conflict with one another," Castiel assured him, making Sam snicker. "And, I suppose, there will always be a need for accountants so long as there are people with money who wish to pay other people to keep track of it."

"And even if there isn't, nothing says you absolutely have to stay an accountant," Sam offered. "I know, job security and all, but something tells me you wouldn't have been so quick to ditch your coworkers to hang out with a bunch of drunk law school grads and my older brother if you weren't eager for an excuse to ditch the whole job."

"I think I was looking for an excuse to ditch my whole life," Castiel mumbled against Sam's chest. Sam had to force himself not to tense or jerk or otherwise react as the man continued, sounding almost like he was drifting back to sleep, "My leg is gone and my military career with it, lost my faith in God in the war zone, lost my wife to my lack of faith and the PTSD nightmares that even therapy can't fix, and my boss thought sending me off on this stupid company retreat was a better option than letting me sit at home alone over the weekend."

Sam blinked up at the ceiling as he tried to process all of that, letting the information slot into place around the puzzle pieces that he already had about Castiel Allen-maybe-Winchester. He could remember all too well what John Winchester had been like after the fire that killed his mother, her loss only making the PTSD he'd brought back from Vietnam worse, but God forbid anyone even mention the word "therapy" in his hearing or they'd be treated to a spirited and slightly slurred rant about how the entire medical profession was full of quacks and the shrinks were the worst of the lot. Part of Sam's own decision to take the psychology course in school had been to prove John wrong, even though the man was no longer alive to have his face rubbed in the positive results of his younger son having gotten therapy for John's issues.

Castiel seemed to be doing better in that regard, if the mention of therapy was any indicator, though Sam understood how persistent nightmares could be even with someone helping you dig through your brain to figure out why you were having them. Injured and discharged, loss of faith and recently divorced, nightmares and a job he hadn't denied not wanting to be in... Yeah, going on a retreat with his coworkers over the weekend was probably the better option than letting him stew alone in an empty space that probably still had the holes where his wife used to be reminding him of the loss.

And now he was married to Sam thanks to a drunken decision the night before, and Sam had to be reminded of his new husband's name because he'd been too drunk to remember meeting him.

"I guess I made a decent enough impression on you last night if you figured marrying me was even a viable option," Sam mumbled absently, wincing a little when he realized he'd spoken aloud. "Hey. If you could pick anything to do, any job or career you wanted, what would it be?"

"Is that a fanciful hypothetical or a more realistic inquiry?" came the sleepy mumble. Sam found his eyebrows trying to climb into his hair at the way Castiel could manage multiple syllables while hungover and falling back asleep, but set that aside to address the question.

"Either one, if you want to answer one more than the other," he offered. "How about going on the assumption that mobility isn't an issue."

"Mobility will always be an issue," Castiel sighed against Sam's chest. "Either you're very kind or you honestly haven't noticed, but I only have half a right leg." There was a pause, and then he added, "Odds are on the latter this morning, but it was probably the former last night since I can tell I'm not wearing my prosthetic."

"Hadn't noticed," Sam admitted. "Doesn't matter. Well, I guess it matters since I'll need to learn how to help you if there's ever a problem with your prosthetic, or complications with your leg and hip because of it..."

"Why?" Castiel interrupted, and the small, bewildered tone to his voice made Sam fall silent. "Why would you need to... Why are you talking as if we're not going to be filing for an annulment as soon as our hangovers clear enough to make getting dressed and facing sunlight an option?"

"Do you want to get an annulment?" Sam asked as evenly as possible, squashing the hurt Castiel's questions sent stabbing through him. They weren't unreasonable questions, and even now Sam wasn't sure he could give the other man any answers, but he knew that even blackout drunk he wasn't the type to just marry some random stranger on a whim. He'd always prided himself on his instincts regarding people, and when his own instincts faltered Dean's were there to help him sort things out. And Dean had been with him when he met Castiel.

"I... no," Castiel admitted in that same small voice. "No, I don't... as awful as it may sound, being drunk married to a virtual stranger in Vegas is better than going back to my empty house and emptier life. But this isn't just about me, Sam. You're a graduate of Stanford Law with a whole world of possibilities ahead of you with which to build your life. I just don't understand why you would want to start building that life shackled to an ex-soldier with more mental and medical issues than a news stand who you don't even remember meeting."

"I'm not," Sam said, curling his arm tighter around Castiel when he felt the other man flinch. "I'm starting that life married - _married_ , not shackled - to an intelligent man with a military background and a good head for numbers and logistics who, even blackout drunk, I could tell was worth hanging around long enough that getting married sounded like a good idea not just to me but to Dean. Even for only meeting us last night, I can tell you know how protective Dean is of me, which means he likes you enough to trust you with me alone while I'm drunk. If you really wanted to get an annulment, I wouldn't fight you on it, but I don't mind staying married and seeing how this goes for us.

"So, serious question," he went on when Castiel just lay there looking up at him with wide blue eyes. "Mobility aside, if still taken into consideration for practical reasons, what would you most want to be doing?"

"Promise not to laugh?" Castiel asked, searching Sam's face, and looking away when Sam gave a solemn nod. "I always wanted to be an artist." At the encouraging noise Sam made, he went on, "I loved art as a kid... always drawing, sketching in my school notebooks, on the margins of my textbooks, filling pads of paper and reams of computer paper with drawings. Dad bought me all the art supplies I thought to ask for, making me start small to get a feel for new mediums before letting me get more... he was a writer, so he understood the creative drive."

"But?" Sam prompted softly, when Castiel fell silent.

"But... he also had a personal insight into the down side of trying to make a living off creativity," Castiel sighed. "Dad's a technically successful writer, in that he's got a lot of published books. He writes under the name 'Carver Edlund'."

"The 'Supernatural' books, about Tristan and Ross Tippens?" Sam blurted out, startled.

"You've read them?" Castiel asked, equally startled.

"Dean and I devoured those books growing up!" Sam exclaimed, modulating his voice when the volume made them both wince from the hangover twinging. "We used to read them together under the blankets with a flashlight and pretend we were Ross and Tristan, having all kinds of crazy supernatural adventures to go along with an enforced migratory lifestyle and military upbringing." He paused, then reluctantly admitted, "Except 'Bugs'. That one was weird."

"Even Dad hated 'Bugs'," Castiel told him in dry tones, though Sam could feel the smile against his chest. "He pointed to 'Bugs' as evidence of what can happen when you have no inspiration, an impatient editor, a looming deadline, and a roach infestation. You can understand how that might have been an effective object lesson for a teenager in how unreliable creativity is for making a decent living."

"Ouch," Sam winced in sympathy. He could understand, alright, but it still seemed like an awful thing to do to a kid. "I'm guessing that's how you ended up going into the military?"

"My older brother found me in the middle of an anxiety meltdown over what I was going to do with my life if art wasn't an option," Castiel sighed. "And I know that seems like an extreme mindset to have - Dad wasn't trying to make me give up on art completely, just find something else to do as a day job - but I was panicking. Mike did what he thought would help me best and marched me down to the Army recruiting office to join up right out of high school, same as he did." He grimaced. "I'm not nearly so good at shutting up and taking orders as my brother, but for the job security and health insurance I made myself suck it up and learn to fake it. Dad wasn't thrilled about having us both in the military, but I guess most parents aren't thrilled with the idea of their children going off to war."

"I wouldn't know," Sam admitted with a shrug of the shoulder Castiel was not leaning against. "I think Dad would have been happier if I'd gone into the military. Dean did, but he also told me if I ever tried to join up he'd go AWOL just to kick my ass."

"Protective older brother's prerogative," Castiel chuckled softly. "So what about you?"

"Hm?"

"Law school wasn't something you saw yourself doing when you were younger," Castiel reminded him, "so what did you want to do? What would you do if you could do anything?"

"Promise not to laugh or tell your dad?" Sam halfway joked, smiling a little nervously when Castiel looked up at him, curiosity bright in those blue eyes.

"I promise," he said. Sam nodded. Swallowed.

"I wanted to be a writer," he mumbled. When Castiel smiled but didn't laugh, Sam felt compelled to admit, "My English teachers in high school used to praise me for my imagination whenever creative writing assignments came up. I was just writing stories about the things me and Dean got up to as kids as original character fan fiction of your dad's books."

"That's actually kind of amazing," Castiel told him. At Sam's skeptical look, he added, "No, really. Dad's always been vocally supportive of fan fiction, calling it 'transformative works' and encouraging young writers to 'find their feet with familiar ground'. I don't think he ever read any of it, but he wasn't against it. I still won't tell him if you don't want me to."

"Thank you," Sam sighed. "I don't know why I'm so... I was never shy about my writing before."

"You also were never speaking to the son of the writer whose works you wrote fan fiction for," Castiel pointed out, eyebrows lifting as he added, "And in such intimate quarters."

"That's certainly true," Sam chuckled, daring to use the hand holding Castiel against him to stroke down the length of the other man's back to just under the covers. "Not that I'm minding being in 'such intimate quarters' with you."

"I'm glad to hear it," Castiel said with a smirk. "Especially since you seem intent on having the opportunity to get used to it."

"Quite intent," Sam assured him, and then had the pleasure of seeing Castiel's blue eyes darken with an indefinable emotion. For a moment, Sam wondered if the other man was going to lean up and kiss him, and found that he really didn't mind the prospect at all. Then the moment passed and Castiel settled his head down on Sam's shoulder again.

"So what happened to turn you from aspiring writer to law school graduate?" he asked. Sam tried not to sigh in disappointment as he relaxed back into the pillow.

"I got accepted to Stanford on a full ride scholarship," he told the ceiling. "To this day, I'm glad that Dean was overseas when the letter came so he wasn't put in the middle of the fight Dad and I had over me going."

"You got into _Stanford_ on a _full ride scholarship_ and your father was _angry_?" Castiel breathed, his tone full of incredulity. His head moved from Sam's shoulder again, probably to look at Sam's face, but Sam couldn't look away from the ceiling, not in that moment.

"Like I said, I think he would have preferred I go into the military if I had to leave at all," he said, grimacing. "As it was, he didn't even get to the part about it being a full ride scholarship, just started ranting about how could I go behind his back like this since I'd pretty much had to in order to send off college applications at all, called me ungrateful and accused me of thinking I was better than him and Dean, wanting to go to some overpriced, overrated school for a useless piece of paper... He yelled, I yelled back, he called me a traitor to the family, I mouthed off saying he and I were barely family without Dean there to play peacekeeper, he said I wasn't going, I said I was, and he told me if I walked out the door I shouldn't bother coming back."

"That's awful," Castiel murmured, squeezing where his arm was around Sam's chest. "I can't even imagine..."

"I couldn't completely believe he meant it until I was on the bus to California and he hadn't come after me to try and drag me back," Sam whispered. "When it hit me, I cried for... probably two separate state lines, off and on. I think I was convinced that leaving for Stanford meant I would never see Dean again." He huffed a soft, slightly wet laugh. "Then the jerk called me from Iraq to yell at me for not telling him I got into Stanford and that I'd better be at the airport closest to Palo Alto to pick him up when he flew in for leave."

"Your father didn't try to make him choose between you?" Castiel asked hesitantly.

"Oh, no, he did," Sam shook his head. "He won't tell me what it was that made him do it, what Dad said that made him decide we were both better off cutting him out of our lives, but Dean picked me. The Impala was already in Dean's name instead of Dad's, so when his unit rotated home he used his month off to drive her out to Palo Alto and kidnap me for a road trip over Spring Break. When his enlistment was up, he moved in with me and it's been us against the world ever since."

"I see," Castiel murmured. There was a contemplative melancholy to his tone that Sam found he didn't like, so he tilted his head down and reached up to stroke Castiel's cheek, coaxing him to look up and meet his eyes.

"Hey," he said softly. "Just because it's always been me and Dean doesn't mean we don't know how to let other people into our world. In fact, I don't think I care what the paperwork says we decided last night. You're officially a Winchester now."

"Even if it means having to look my father in the eye one of these days?" Castiel teased, making Sam burst out laughing.

"I'm sure I'll manage it when the time comes," he managed through the snickering. "Should I be worried about your brother coming after me for taking advantage of you while drunk?"

"Given that I actually remember meeting you, I'm sure any advantage taking was mutual," Castiel snorted. "If Michael doesn't like that, he can remember that I'm an adult and capable of handling my own affairs, even if those affairs involve getting drunk married in Vegas a week after the divorce was finalized."

Sam sobered at the reminder that his new husband was also a recent divorcee, something he had known was part of the general mix of upset Castiel was dealing with but had been skipped over until now. "That _is_ a fairly rapid progression," he pointed out cautiously.

Castiel sighed. "Not so rapid as all that. Daphne and I were separated for months before the papers were signed. The finalization didn't really change anything except make it, well, _final_ . We weren't going to be working through my PTSD issues or her issues with my PTSD and loss of faith together, weren't going to get back together and be married again. I came back from Afghanistan a different man than the one she married, she couldn't deal with that, and I couldn't change it. We tried, _she_ tried, but by the time I was being fitted for my prosthetic... we knew."

"Still sucks," Sam said, squeezing his arm around Castiel's shoulders the way Castiel had done for him.

"That it does," Castiel agreed. There was a moment of silence, and then he returned the squeeze as he added, "I think it's looking better now, though."

Whatever Sam might have said in response was interrupted by the strident shrilling of a generic phone ring echoing from the vicinity of the wall closest to the foot of the bed. Castiel groaned and burrowed his head further into Sam's chest, making him grunt, as if he could try and block out the sound by fusing himself into Sam's body. Sam cringed at the sound, stroking his hand down over Castiel's back.

"Didn't you say you turned off your phone last night?" he asked.

"It turns itself back on when my alarm goes off, even if I sleep through it. It's probably Zachariah," Castiel mumbled, then added a few choice words to describe whoever "Zachariah" was that had Sam biting his lip to avoid laughing. "I don't want to talk to him."

"Do you want me to answer?" Sam started to ask, only for the phone to fall blessedly silent once more. "Or not..."

"He'll call back," Castiel sighed. "And if you want to answer his next call and deal with his Lord High Pompousness so I don't have to, I absolutely will not stop you."

"You'll have to let me up for that," Sam teased. Castiel muttered another several choice words, but disengaged from around Sam's body and reluctantly put space between them. Sam chuckled and, before he could talk himself out of it, dropped a playful kiss on Castiel's nose before rolling the other way and getting out of bed. The chill of the room almost made him hesitate in embarrassment as he remembered what all he _wasn't_ wearing, but the appreciative noise Castiel made and the sudden resumption of ringing had him disregarding that embarrassment in favor of diving for the meticulously folded pile of clothes and fishing through them for the ringing phone which he silenced with a swipe of his thumb across the screen. "Castiel Winchester's phone, his husband speaking."

 _"What in blazes?!"_ spluttered the voice on the other end of the line. _"Who the devil are you? Put Allen on the line this instant!"_

"I'm afraid _Mr Winchester_ is unavailable to take your call at present," Sam replied in a much more pleasant voice than he really felt this asshole deserved. "Would you care to leave a message?"

 _"Tell_ **_Mr Allen_ ** _to cease these infantile shenanigans and present himself in the banquet hall promptly or I'll have him fired!"_ the man on the other end snapped, and disconnected the call before Sam could even respond.

"He can't actually have me fired," Castiel spoke up from the bed. He was sitting up now, though the sheet still covered his lap, and Sam didn't bother to hide the admiring visual sweep he gave his husband's bare chest and broad shoulders. "He's not my boss, or even my supervisor. He only thinks he's in charge of everything because he takes charge and no one bothers to argue with him. I should probably call my actual boss and let him know that I got married and intend to ditch the rest of the company retreat for my honeymoon," he added thoughtfully.

"Do you want to do that while I'm finding my phone and getting us more water?" Sam asked, tossing the phone towards the bed in a gentle underhand arc when the other man shrugged and nodded. Castiel picked up the phone and immediately began swiping his fingers across the screen with the ease of someone much more practiced in the use of the newer touch screen phones, so Sam turned his attention to gathering up his clothes from the floor, patting down his pants until he found his own phone.

"Voicemail," Castiel reported just as Sam managed to locate his phone tucked into the inside pocket of his discarded jacket. Sam nodded, and then tuned out Castiel murmuring into the phone, leaving a message for his boss to find later, in favor of opening his phone and turning it on. To his relief, there was still some battery power to it, though not as much as he might have wished.

There was also a text message from Luis that read, "Ur bro said u got hitched!! WTF congrats!!" and another one from Kate telling him they were meeting for a late lunch in the restaurant attached to their hotel at one and he should bring his new husband along with their marriage license and certificate to discuss the paperwork. Sam snapped the phone closed again with an irritated huff; Kate probably thought he'd want to start annulment procedures, and while he couldn't blame her for that it still rankled that she thought he was the kind of person who would get married on a drunken whim and then not even try to make it work after sobering up. Since there was nothing from Dean himself and Luis had said Dean told them, Sam was happy to take that as confirmation that his brother approved and tossed his phone onto the bed before ducking into the bathroom. It didn't take long to find the remaining two complimentary hotel paper cups and fill them both, carrying them back out to rejoin his husband.

That thought was going to take some getting used to, and Sam was finding it easier and easier to be excited by the prospect the more he learned about Castiel. He hoped the same was true for everything Castiel was learning about him.

"--the best thing that could have happened to me," Castiel was saying as Sam slid back into bed next to him. Well, that sounded promising. He took the offered cup of water with a grateful look as he went on, "I apologize for whatever headache my leaving the retreat early may cause you, but it would be in poor taste not to spend the remainder of my weekend with my husband. I promise to render whatever explanations you require from me on Monday. Have a good weekend."

"If it comes down to it, I'll come with you to wherever your coworkers are meeting and explain to them that I'm absconding with you for our honeymoon," Sam offered as Castiel disconnected the call and let the hand holding his phone drop to the bed, the other hand bringing the cup of water to his lips. As Castiel tilted his head back to gulp down the water, Sam's eyes caught again on the marks he'd left behind on the other man's neck and shoulders and felt the heat creeping back into his face as he reached up to brush a fingertip along one particularly high-placed mark. "Although it's probably going to be obvious that whatever 'shenanigans' we got up to last night, they were definitely not infantile. Not sure this one can be covered by a button-down and suit jacket... sorry."

"Don't be," Castiel sighed, eyes slipping closed as he leaned into the light touch. Sam took the hint and set his own water down on the bedside table before he scooted closer, stealing the empty cup and tossing it to the side, then bringing both hands up to map the lines of Castiel's shoulders and then turning the caress into the more firm press of a proper massage at the feel of the tense muscles. "Mmmm... where did you learn...?"

"High school soccer coach," Sam answered with a small smile, digging his thumbs into the knotted muscles near Castiel's spine. "The man was an ass, but he taught us a lot about conditioning and how to handle our own over-strained muscles and ligaments. And I did a sports medicine course at Stanford, which went a little more in-depth into things like physical therapy and therapeutic massage. Not enough to qualify me as a licensed physical therapist, mind, but enough that I'm pretty sure I won't fuck up your back giving you a massage."

"How are you real?" Castiel all but moaned, leaning into Sam's hands in earnest. "Are you some sort of angel come down from Heaven to help me find my faith again? Because it's working!"

"A bit of a roundabout way of bolstering faith, getting drunk married in Vegas," Sam teased gently, shaking his head. As often as his father had ranted in his cups about Sam being a demon that traded his mother's life for his own, to be called an angel felt more than a little bewildering. Time and therapy had only just recently managed to convince him that he was completely and perfectly human. "Definitely more ambiguous than a burning bush. Would an undercover angel even admit to being an angel?"

"I suppose that would depend on whether they were any good at being undercover," Castiel mused, then gasped as Sam hit a particularly tough knot. "Just... hard to imagine having you... getting to keep you... unless you were sent from some sort of deity to answer my prayers."

"Or maybe you were sent here in answer to _my_ prayers," Sam countered. "It's not like I didn't have any direction for my life, but having too many to choose from is probably similar to feeling like you don't have any." Sam was willing to bet that they had both felt the same paralysis, the tightness in their chests that makes a person feel like they can't draw in a breath because there's no air left to breathe. He left off the massage and wrapped his arms around his husband, pressing his chest to Castiel's back and bringing his lips close to the other man's ear to murmur, "Now I've got a direction to start with. I have you, wherever that ends up taking me, and Dean will follow wherever we decide to go."

There was silence between them then, Sam having said all that he felt he needed to say and Castiel processing his words while Sam indulged in the desire to simply hold this fascinating man he was now married to. At length, Castiel tilted his head back to rest on Sam's shoulder and said in an odd voice, "Wherever we decide to go?"

"Anywhere at all," Sam promised, wondering just what his husband was thinking.

Castiel didn't keep him wondering for long. "Can we go back to bed?"

"For a little while, sure," Sam agreed. Not like they'd done much in the way of leaving the bed all morning so far, but this seemed to have more intent behind it. "Why?"

"Because right at this moment I find myself very much wanting to see if we can try and reclaim a few more memories from last night," Castiel answered, turning in Sam's embrace and looking up at him with a distinct glint of arousal darkening those incredible blue eyes in a very inviting way. "How much time do we have?"

"Uh," Sam scrambled to pick up his phone and check the clock on it, his stomach flipping as he read the numbers. "A little over an hour before Dean and my friends are expecting us to meet them for lunch."

"Perfect," Castiel purred.

The phone dropped to the mattress to be lost among the covers until they would eventually resurface and hunt for it before leaving the room. Sam dropped to the mattress next, pushed there by Castiel's firm hands, his own hands reaching up to pull his husband down after him as lips met and parted in smiles, kisses, breathless words and stuttered moans and delighted laughter.

They were twenty minutes late to lunch.

**=End=**


End file.
